


A Deer on Main Street

by AbsurdlyHappyAboutStorms



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Animal Death, Gore, Post-Apocalypse, just your regular unspecified apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 12:56:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsurdlyHappyAboutStorms/pseuds/AbsurdlyHappyAboutStorms
Summary: A snapshot of Desmond and Clay hunting in the Black Hills together in a post-apocalypse setting.





	A Deer on Main Street

**Author's Note:**

> I figured Desmond would track animals the traditional way in this AU because he was never in the animus so it never triggered his eagle vision via Bleeding Effect.

Desmond's eyes followed a set of cleft hoof marks from the pine needles at his knee into the dry grass. Young and old trees alike peppered what might have been an empty lot, partially obscuring the buildings ahead of them. A pale yellow and pink Shell sign peered over the branches of a tree and leaning telephone pole, a splintered hole in the plastic like a missing eye looking blindly down. He checked the wind direction.

"The wind is still on our side, even though there isn't much cover," he said. "I think we can make it to Main street from here without being spotted."

Clay nodded.

The grass was a dusty brown, but mostly soft like hay. The blades with rougher edges pulled on their clothes as they waded in. Desmond followed the tracks from one bush to the next, noting the chewed leaves and twigs as he went. He pointed out that and pellet-like droppings to the side of the trail, which were still soft under his shoe, to Clay without a word.

Stepping over a little bit of snow in the ditch beside it, they came up onto a road. A weather-beaten sedan with a nest in the broken tail light stood on the shoulder across from them. They hid behind it, looking down Main street through the window tint. Nothing.

"Do you think you can still track it?" Clay asked.

Desmond looked through the windows again, this time sweeping the ground. It would leave no tracks on the asphalt, but there was snow, mud, and plenty of growth.

"I think so. I just don't see much cover to shoot from." His voice was so low he practically mouthed the words.

Pushing off from the car, he went to pick up the trail again at the edge of the road. There was very little snow left on it, but deep fissures gave way to thick woody stalks and grass. No clues for him on those. He looked up the road. It was a straight shot all the way down to the shopping center and still empty. They made their way past the Shell station and pizzeria, past the liquor store where dirty broken glass filled the windows like jagged teeth. He steered them towards the sidewalk where grass grew like scar tissue in the cracks and looked closely for any of the deer's browsing. Finally, its tracks reappeared in the mud by the curb. He pointed them out as they neared the corner of a building, crossing over to its front with Clay close behind.

Old plant life was absolutely spilling out of the parking lot around the corner. Thick weeds with spiny stalks, young trees and bushes, all determinedly driving apart the faded tar. They fell silent to hear rustling from inside. Clay took point at the corner and shouldered his rifle, turning quickly to take the shot before it ran- but it didn't notice him. Its head was somewhere deep in the growth. Sight, breathe, squeeze- a sharp crack exploded into the quiet.

"It's down," he said. His own voice and the sound of snapping branches sounded off through the ringing in his ears.

Its weight was still settling onto the weeds when they found it behind a car a few yards away, but they couldn't see its breath and its eyes stared blind.

"All yours."

"I know," Desmond sighed, shucking off his gloves and passing them to Clay, who was pocketing the spent shell. He turned the body over, taking out his knife with a look at the neat hole over its heart. "Good shot."

A cut near the collarbones, a cut near the pubic bone, and a sound something like ripping paper as he brought the knife up its belly from one to the other. His work was quick and methodical. Cut here, cut there; loosen this, pull that. But getting out of the wind did nothing to keep the chill off once he wet his hands. Steam trailed up into the cold, dry air from its body before he turned it over to drain. Clay handed him a wet rag.

"Thanks," he said. He dried his hands on a bandanna, but the cold still clung to him. Even with the warm gloves from Clay's inner pocket on, it sunk deep into his fingers to the bone.

"I was thinking about training a hunting dog," Clay said, re-buttoning his coat. "Heather said her dog is going to have puppies some time next month. She doesn't know who the father is- it could be a wolf for all she knows- but I thought I'd give it a try. Are you interested?"

"Sure. Do you know how to train a hunting dog?" Desmond looked up at him, flexing his fingers. "A wolf-dog, no less?"

"It's the same principles as teaching a dog anything else. Wolf-dogs are smart and probably better trackers anyway, if that's what we get. Then again, we could get a dog like Doug," he said with a roll of his eyes.

Desmond couldn't help but smile. That dog cheated death on the daily. With intelligence like that, or a lack of it rather, the thing wouldn't even know its own name.

"Yeah. Let me know when you pick one. Does she want anything for it?"

"No. She just wants them off her hands. And she said she can wait until they're older so we can take a better guess at what kind of dog it is." Clay sat back on his heels in the grass across from him and drew up his shoulders against the wind.

Maybe the wait wasn't long, but in this bitter weather it was. Eventually the deer drained enough to carry it. Desmond took it by the ankles and hoisted it onto his shoulders.

"I got it," Clay protested.

"You want to carry it?"

"Yeah, sure. You dressed it."

The pile of innards on the ground made it much lighter, but nobody liked a deer too light. Clay settled it on his shoulders with that gaping hole pressing heavily onto his jacket and a pair of hooves in each hand.

"How much time do we have to get back now?" he asked, shifting its weight for a more comfortable hold.

Desmond glanced up at the sky. The sun was nowhere in sight. Light just refracted through the clouds into a white glow over the sky.

"No idea."

"That's nice."

"I'm sure we have time. It won't be long."

And they began to backtrack.


End file.
